


when it hits you

by carissima



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Awkward Boners, Awkward Crush, M/M, Pining, Unexpected Sexual Desires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carissima/pseuds/carissima
Summary: And that’s the precise moment he realizes that he may, in fact, have a Miro-sized problem.





	when it hits you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiddleyoumust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleyoumust/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [fiddleyoumust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleyoumust/pseuds/fiddleyoumust) in the [PuckingRare2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2019) collection. 



> thanks to bee for the beta :)
> 
> and thanks julia for giving me prompts when i needed them!

Roope’s developed a fairly strong dislike for talking to the media since he’s been in the US. He’s been told before, mostly by Seggy, that they’re lucky here in Dallas, since there’s only ever two or three guys hanging around the locker room. He’s been in the NHL long enough now to know that Seggy’s probably right. They talk to Seggy and Benny the most, sometimes Bish and Klinger for some variety. He’s managed to mostly fly under the radar because he’s not a superstar like Jamie, or a top three pick like Miro.

He may also play up exactly how poor his own English is whenever he’s asked to speak to the media. It works pretty well for him.

Miro’s English is actually pretty terrible though, and possibly made worse by him raising his voice a little whenever he speaks, which he’s pretty sure is a result of some half-hearted media training that Miro was probably subjected to, pre-season.

He’s known Miro long enough now that he doesn’t feel bad snickering to himself as Miro tries to answer a question about fatigue, when he’s clearly unsure what, exactly, fatigue is. He catches Miro’s unimpressed glare over the reporter’s shoulder so he mimes going to sleep. It’s 50/50 whether Miro thinks he’s being chirped or he figures it out, so Roope busies himself stripping down to his shorts.

“... it turned out really well,” he hears the reporter say and turns his head to listen with half an ear. “I heard the front office was really pleased with how it looks and how well it presents Texas. Congratulations.”

Roope lifts his eyebrows and looks over at a now blushing Miro. Intrigued, Roope waits for the reporter to make an awkward-sounding exit and wanders over to where Miro’s tugging off his sweaty practice shirt.

“What turned out well?” Roope asks, curious. He leans against the wall and folds his arms across his chest.

“Uh,” Miro says and his face absolutely flames red.

Roope can’t even hide his grin now. “C’mon, bro. What is it? Why are you so embarrassed?”

“It’s nothing,” Miro insists and threads his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He focuses on taking off his pads, only to look up and see Roope still standing there, still grinning widely. “Oh for -. I did an interview, okay? They wanted something on Dallas athletes so they asked me to do it. It’s nothing.”

“Is it online?” Roope’s already walking back to his stall, reaching into his bag to pull out his phone. He’s got two missed calls from his mom and a few texts but he ignores them and pulls up a browser. “Who was it for?”

“No one,” Miro pleads. “It’s nothing.”

Roope ignores him and skims through twitter instead, finding a link almost immediately.

“I’m going to shower,” Miro says desperately.

Roope barely hears him because he’s finally got the page open and he’s staring at a picture of Miro. He knows it’s Miro because he’s known the kid since he was 17, when he was smaller and kind of annoying because he was so much better than anyone else on their team, even back then. And somehow, he managed to follow Roope all the way to Dallas where he gets to be better than most of the team even though it’s the goddamn NHL and they play with legitimate superstars.

But this picture.

Roope swallows thickly. It’s Miro, but he’s wearing a suit - the tie is green, of course, he registers dimly - and it shouldn’t be making Roope’s mouth go dry. Except Miro looks good. He looks better than good. He’s looking to the right, his profile visible, and maybe it’s photoshop or something, he thinks desperately because Miro looks. God, he looks amazing.

He looks gorgeous.

He’s sitting in a car with brown leather seats and his arms are raised, pulling his shirt tightly across his chest.

Roope sits down in his stall with a hard thud. He has to put his phone down because otherwise it’s going to get really embarrassing for him, really quickly, and there are still teammates milling around, laughing and talking and generally being totally normal.

Roope feels anything but normal.

*

He skips his usual post-practice shower and heads back to his hotel, ignoring Esa’s curious look and focusing on getting out of that damn locker room and away from Miro as quickly as possible.

His pants are embarrassingly tight while he drives.

He manages to get up to his room without humiliating himself, thanks to the elevator and careful positioning of his bag, but once he’s closed the door behind him, he leans back against it and takes his phone out of his pocket. He unlocks it and is immediately greeted with Miro’s dumb, stupid, fucking attractive face and body and a rush of shame and humiliation burns through him.

He’s shared locker rooms with Miro. He’s known him for years. He’s seen him do frankly embarrassing shit on a daily basis. He’s seen Miro throw an actual tantrum after a loss. He’s seen Miro drunk, his shirt half-undone, slurring his words and hanging off teammates because he can’t hold his beer.

And now he’s falling apart over a picture of the guy. Fuck.

Throwing his phone down on the bed, he strips off angrily and steps into the shower, bracing his hands on the tiles and letting the hot water sluice over his body. It’s just a picture, he tells himself over and over again. Just a well shot, possibly photoshopped, photograph of his buddy.

It’s just Miro, he thinks as he scrubs his hair clean. It’s just Miro looking like a fucking snack, he thinks in frustration as he soaps up his hands and runs them over his body. He shouldn’t be getting so worked up over it. Last night, while they watched an episode of Ozark, he watched Miro shove so much popcorn into his mouth that half of it fell out again. It was disgusting.

God, he’s so fucking hard.

He’s not jerking off though. It’s definitely against bro code, he thinks. And it’s weird. Miro’s his best friend in Dallas. He can’t jerk off to a photo of Miro and then look him in the eye tomorrow. He just can’t. That shit’s weird.

Reluctantly, he switches the water to cold and yelps when the water chills. He grits his teeth though and waits until he’s numb all over, but more importantly, his dick is behaving again, which is great because it’s one photo. He’s never looked at Miro before and thought about him naked. Hell, he’s seen Miro naked already in the locker room. And sure, he’s fit and, not that he’s looked or anything, but he knows Miro’s packing some nice equipment down there and his ass is objectively peachy. But Roope’s never had an errant boner over him before.

He groans and throws himself on his bed, his towel wrapped precariously loosely around his hips. He needs a distraction, that’s all.

That’s why he spends the rest of his day eating shitty American junk food, playing Fornite and when that fails, going for a run until he’s drenched in sweat and can barely move.

And when he gets in the shower just before he crawls into bed for an early night, he doesn’t think about Miro at all.

*

He wakes up feeling completely refreshed, and by the time he strolls into practice in the morning, he’s confident that he’s got whatever yesterday was under control.

Until he walks into the locker room and sees Miro, stripped to the waist and bent over his stall, his dumb hair cascading down over his face and his heart starts racing.

And that’s the precise moment he realizes that he may, in fact, have a Miro-sized problem.

*

Roope catches himself staring at Miro as he idly stick-handles a puck during warm-ups and he turns away, his face flaming. Finding Miro’s hockey hot isn’t actually a new thing for him. He’s always thought that Miro looks beautiful on the ice; smooth and easy and effortless, constantly drawing Roope’s attention whether he wants to give it or not.

Later, when he’s back in his hotel room, lying on his bed and staring at the photo that’s definitely the root cause of all his current problems, he tries to figure out why this one, singular picture is ruining his life. He’s seen Miro in a suit before. He’s definitely seen Miro’s side profile before and not once has he had such a visceral, physical reaction to him.

There’s something about it, though.

He’s still thinking about it when he drifts off to sleep a few hours, his phone falling out of his relaxed hand and Miro’s face fading to black.

*

The thing is, he can’t avoid Miro forever. He doesn’t even want to. Miro’s become one of his best friends over the past season. He’s a piece of home that Roope gets to keep with him while they figure out everything else, when it’s too easy to get lost in the shit that surrounds them.

So he sucks it up, jerks off before practice just in case, and when Miro catches his gaze in the locker room, Roope shoots him a wide grin and feels a bit shitty when Miro sends a hesitant one back.

“Hey,” Miro says when Roope walks over and deliberately lays his hand on Miro’s shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Roope says, and gives him a little squeeze. He clears his throat a little. “Sorry, just a weird couple of days.”

Miro doesn’t look convinced but his smile comes a little easier now. “Wanna hit the bikes?”

Roope groans on cue, not because he hates the bike but Miro loves the bike. Like, obsessively. He’s got the thighs to prove it, too. Give Roope a treadmill and he’s happy. Happier if he can actually get outside and run. But Miro’s a bike guy, and Roope feels it’s his responsibility to chirp him about it whenever possible. “Sure,” he says as reluctantly as he can.

Now Miro’s openly laughing at him. “If you worked out more, maybe Modern Luxury will want you for an interview,” he says, nudging at Roope’s side with his elbow as they walk.

“Ouch,” Roope feigns, clutching at his ribs theatrically. “And no thanks.”

“What, you don’t want the chance to show off all those dumb poses you’ve been practicing on your insta?” Miro teases, unzipping his hoodie and dropping it over one of the bike’s handlebars. Then he climbs on and programs in his favorite workout.

Roope’s slower, taking his time to stretch his calves out before he gets on the bike and chooses an easier program to follow. “You’re just jealous that I’m a natural in front of the camera,” he says with an affronted sniff. “They’re not poses, babe. The camera just loves me.”

Miro snorts loudly. “Okay, dude.”

“Besides,” Roope continues, ignoring Miro’s blatant jealousy over his good looks and natural charisma. “They’d probably want me to wear something boring like that ugly suit you wore.”

“You think anything that’s not neon-colored or animal print is boring,” Miro says.

“Well, yeah,” Roope says honestly. “It is.”

“I liked my suit,” Miro says with a shrug. His feet are moving twice as fast as Roope’s, and he’s barely broken a sweat yet. “I thought it looked pretty good.”

Roope focuses on his own metrics and swallows hard. “You looked okay,” he allows.

“Thanks, bro,” Miro says with a sincerity that shames him. “I was pretty nervous.”

Roope breathes unsteadily and hopes Miro thinks it’s just the exercise. “Maybe try a print next time,” he offers when he’s sure his voice will hold. “Go crazy for once.”

When Miro laughs, his entire face lights up and all Roope can do is stare. “Maybe,” he allows. “I like simple stuff though, like clothes or whatever.”

A noise at the door has them both looking up to find Esa grinning at them. “Hey boys,” he says, like he’s not just two years older than Roope. “What’s going on?”

“Miro thinks that if he wears boring ass plain clothes, no one will notice that he’s an elite hockey player and put the spotlight on him like he’s Seggy,” Roope says dryly. He doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know Miro’s pouting at him. He focuses on his rhythm instead, keeping his leg movements fluid and easy.

“While Hinne here thinks he’s Justin Bieber or something,” Miro says dryly.

Roope drops his head and laughs helplessly. He can’t help it, there’s something about Miro’s soft delivery and wicked burns that always gets him every damn time.

“But he’s shit at karaoke,” Esa says, confused.

“He means aesthetically,” Roope says, still grinning when he looks over at Miro. Miro, as usual, keeps his expression fairly blank but there’s a hint of a smile there anyway. “And fuck you, my singing is amazing.”

“It’s really not,” Miro says with a wrinkle of his nose.

“I hate you both,” Roope groans and keeps on pedalling while Esa and Miro laugh at him.

*

He’s fine. He’s over whatever it was. He can hang out with Miro again and not be weird. Everything’s back to normal.

So when Miro suggests going for lunch, Roope grabs his stuff and drives them both to his favorite Japanese restaurant downtown. Miro’s wearing his usual skinny jeans and a black tee, which Roope has absolutely no feelings about, because the shirt isn’t even tight enough to cling to his toned arms or stretch across his chest. He barely even notices.

Feeling pretty cocky, Roope opens the door to the restaurant for Miro with a flourish and his gaze only briefly lingers on Miro’s ass where his tee has ridden up just a tiny bit. It’s nothing, he’s only human and he appreciates a nice ass. They get seated quickly and Miro tries to tease him about his ripped jeans and ripped shirt combo but Roope’s in too good a mood to do anything other than laugh and give Miro’s own boring outfit a pointed look.

Miro tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear and orders his usual boring ramen dish. Roope orders the spicy miso and leans back in his seat to watch Miro tuck another strand behind his other ear.

He’s completely fine.

*

He’s not fine.

Miro has chopsticks. And he’s using them.

God, his fingers are so distracting.

Roope’s in trouble. He’s having a whole-ass crisis about Miro’s hands over a bowl of ramen.

“Everything okay?”

Roope blinks slowly. “Huh?”

“Is everything alright?” Miro asks him. He’s got his chopsticks in one hand, ramen caught between them as he waits for an answer and Roope can’t stop watching his stupid hands.

“I think I’m having a heart attack,” he mutters into his miso.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Roope says and sighs loudly. “I uh, think I’m coming down with something.” A curse, maybe.

Miro looks concerned. “Like a bug? Do you want me to drive you home? Do you need to stop at the pharmacy?”

“Thanks bro, but I’ll be okay,” Roope says miserably. “I probably just need to sleep it off or something.”

“If you’re sure,” Miro says slowly, looking doubtful.

It’s sweet. And Roope really doesn’t need Miro to be sweet towards him, not with his sexy fingers and peachy ass. He doesn’t need this thing, this crush, this whatever it is that he’s got going on right now to spiral even further out of control.

“I’m good, for sure,” Roope assures him.

And grits his teeth when Miro picks up his chopsticks again, absently twirling them between his fingers.

Fuck.

*

In the end, it’s Miro’s hockey that does it.

He’s feeling high from their win. Hell, he’s on a high from watching Miro score off his pass, making it look easy. They’re heading home on a late flight after the game, after too many days in St Louis, wherever the fuck that is, and Roope can’t seem to stop himself from crowding into Miro’s space. They’re sitting together on the plane, as they always do, away from the main conversation. Even Esa’s giving them space tonight, fast asleep a few rows up on Klinger’s shoulder.

Probably because Roope’s been plastered to Miro’s side since they left the ice.

Roope’s only played with a handful of guys who can keep up with him on the ice when he gets going. None of them compare to Miro. He’s the only one who’s always right where Roope needs him to be, stick on the ice, head up, eyes locked on Roope until the puck leaves his stick.

Just thinking about it makes his skin prickle with goosebumps.

“Alright?” Miro murmurs, probably because Roope’s shifting restlessly in his seat.

“Just thinking about your goal,” Roope admits. “It’s a highlight one for sure.”

“Only because of your pass,” Miro says modestly, nudging him gently with his elbow.

Roope shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter if you’re not there to take the pass and get the puck in the net.”

Miro shrugs like it’s nothing to skate 200 feet and beat his man to the net. And for Miro, that’s probably true. “Hey, we’re all over twitter.”

Roope leans over to look at his phone, eyebrows raised when he sees a clip of their goal and the number of retweets and comments it has. “Wow,” he says, impressed. “Are we trending?”

“Oh for sure, worldwide,” Miro says dryly and Roope grins widely at him. They keep their heads bent together as Miro scrolls through his mentions. Most of them are good. Some are bad. “Look, this guy says you’re the best player in the world.”

Roope squints at his phone before snatching it out of Miro’s hands to look more closely. “It’s nice to finally be appreciated,” he says with a laugh when Miro wrestles the phone back from him.

“I appreciate you,” Miro says with an offended sniff and Roope reaches over to pat his thigh.

“I know, bro,” he says seriously. “You’re the best.”

Miro beams at him and tucks a piece of hair behind his ear. Then he covers Roope’s hand with his own for a moment before he turns back to his phone. “Wanna check your notifications?”

“Sure,” Roope says. It’d probably be easier to just pull his own phone out but he leans back in to watch Miro type in his name and they start scrolling. “Uhh.” Miro pulls up one particularly thirsty tweet that makes Roope’s cheeks heat.

“I can’t unread that,” he says, mildly horrified.

“You’ve had worse on insta,” Miro says because he’s seen a lot of Roope’s DMs and laughed at all of them.

“I don’t think I have,” Roope says. “Wow.”

Because he’s an asshole, Miro pulls up a few more, each one more graphic than the last, and Roope eventually closes his eyes in protest. “Stop, oh my god. Please stop.”

“They’re just being appreciative,” Miro teases. “I thought that’s what you wanted?”

Roope opens one eye to squint-glare at him and then closes it again. The game is finally catching up to him and tiredness washes over him.

He’s almost asleep before he realizes that his hand is still on Miro’s thigh, and even worse, his thumb is idly stroking the inseam of Miro’s pant leg. He freezes and makes a strangled noise.

Miro mumbles a protest, and when Roope tries to move away, Miro’s hand covers his and presses down just a little.

Oh, Roope thinks dizzily and slowly, faintly, he strokes his thumb down Miro’s thigh. Miro makes a pleased sound and Roope strokes his thumb upwards, a little harder this time.

He almost jumps out of his skin when Miro’s head drops onto his shoulder. His heart is pounding - they’re teammates and friends and they’re on a plane surrounded by the rest of their team and Roope is pretty sure he’s about to have a heart attack but then Miro nuzzles his face into Roope’s neck and he has to take a deep breath.

He waits for his pulse to calm down before he finally relaxes. No one’s watching them. Most of the team is asleep or watching movies quietly. No one’s even sitting in their row.

He inches his hand up, encouraged when Miro doesn’t stop him. He looks down to see Miro watching him with quiet, hooded eyes. He knows Miro’s hard. Hell, he’s so hard himself that it almost hurts.

But he’s not going to touch Miro’s dick on a plane full of their teammates, no matter how much he wants to. That doesn’t mean that he can’t tease Miro though. They’ve got about an hour left, and Roope decides that he’s going to spend the time wisely.

*

By the time they land, Miro’s pushed his hand away three times, taken a few deep breaths, shifted his hips, and then put Roope’s hand right back where it was.

They don’t talk about it, but when Miro climbs into his car, Roope follows him all the way back to his place. They stand stupidly close together on the elevator up to his apartment and when Miro puts his key in his door, Roope’s crowded up behind him, urging him forward.

The door slams open and they fall through together, Roope kicking the door shut behind him and whirling around to find Miro pushing him back, slotting their mouths together with a wet, sloppy kiss that drags a low moan from Roope’s throat.

“Asshole,” Miro mutters and grinds his hips against Roope. “I nearly went crazy on the plane.”

“They’d have noticed,” Roope says between long desperate kisses. “If we’d gone to the bathroom together.”

Miro groans at that, because apparently he might have exhibitionist tendencies that Roope thinks they should absolutely explore later. Roope might have a few of his own too.

*

Roope wakes up to find Miro between his legs, his mouth on Roope’s dick. He lets out a gasp and sinks his hands into Miro’s hair, trying desperately not to buck his hips as Miro sucks him. He swears loudly, just once, before he looks down to find Miro watching him with heavy eyes. “Didn’t get enough last night, huh?” he murmurs, keeping his voice soft. His thumb strokes down Miro’s cheek. They’d jerked each other off on Miro’s couch and stumbled into bed where they’d passed out together, too tired to do anything else. “I didn’t either. You can choose where you want my mouth. I can blow you here or in the shower. Or I can blow you while you eat breakfast, really take my time and drive you crazy like last night.”

Miro whimpers around his dick and Roope shudders at the sensation.

“I think you like being teased,” he says thickly.

Miro lets his dick fall out of his mouth and he scrambles up Roope’s body, kissing him hard as they grind their hard cocks together without rhythm, both of them too desperate to care. Miro comes first but Roope’s not far behind, making a mess over both of them.

Later, when Miro’s got his head cushioned on Roope’s chest and he’s got Miro’s hand in his own, Roope laughs softly. “These hands, bro.”

“What about them?” Miro asks sleepily.

“When you did that photoshoot, I thought I’d been fucking run over,” Roope says. It’s easy to admit now, when Miro’s naked and they’re in bed together. “You looked so good.”

Miro hums. “Thought you were acting strange.”

Roope laughs and shakes his head. “I was. I couldn’t stop staring at that picture of you.”

Miro trails his fingers up Roope’s chest. “Yeah?”

“Stop,” Roope groans and catches his wandering hand. “We haven’t got time.”

Miro lifts his head and grins sharply. “Interesting. So you’re into my hands.”

“Kinda into all of you,” Roope says with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh,” Miro says dumbly, like it’s some kind of surprise after all the sex they’ve had over the past eight hours.

He reaches up to tuck a spare strand of Miro’s hair behind his ear. They’ve got practice in an hour, then a whole afternoon free. Roope plans to spend it right here, convincing Miro exactly how much he’s into all of him.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://lovedyouless.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] when it hits you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22150237) by [ofjustimagine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofjustimagine/pseuds/ofjustimagine)




End file.
